Yet say, my soul, can Richard dread
The empty shadows of the dead?
Avaunt, I sicken at the sight;
With horror from my couch I start;
O conscience, how dost thou affright
With fancied fears the guilty heart.

Avaunt! not shallow Richmond's utmost power

Can match the tortures of this midnight hour.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,*

Shall British heroes give the combat o'er?

On, on, my friends, be men indeed,

And spurn the insulting foe;

Know, glory is the warrior's meed,

The height of bliss below.

In peace let soft humanity

Each fiercer thought assuage,

While meek-eyed mild humility

Shall mitigate your rage:

But when the war-denouncing sound
Thunders our sea-girt isle around,

Let haughty Gallia know,

While on the slaughter-reeking plain

She views her noblest heroes slain,
Britannia is her foe.

See, see, e'en now the Gallic warriors fly;

On, on, my friends! St. George and victory!

'Twas thus in Fancy's airy cell

The heaven-taught poet sweetly sung,

While music flow'd like nectar from his tongue,

And own'd his powerful spell.

Then hail thou bard of endless praise,

The wonder of our later days!

United we behold in thee

The glories of the tragic three,*
Their feeling, grace, and energy.
Thy honours shall with ages grow,
Like streams enlarging as they flow;
Time shall new beauties still explore,
Till time and thou shall be no more!

ABRADATES AND PANTHEA.

A SCHOOL EXERCISE.

1799.

THE brazen trump, hoarse thund'ring from afar,

Had rung the signal of approaching war;
When wildly starting from disturb'd repose,
Rouz'd by the sound, the sad Panthea rose,
While each dread summons, like a poison'd dart,
Shot through her frame, and rankled at her heart.
Trembling, at length, 'mid thousands gather'd round,
With hasty steps she reach'd the martial ground;
Where fiercely burning with unconquer❜d zeal,
Bold Abradates cas'd his limbs in steel;

Her tender arms a pleasing burthen brought,
Love-prompted labours which herself had wrought,
A figur'd shield with circling orbs enroll'd,

And a rich belt whose texture flam'd with gold;
These to her lord, (ah! impotent to save!)

Trembling she stretch'd, and kiss'd them as she gave;
Then all collected spoke, and speaking prest

His manly bosom to her aching breast.

"Go, Abradates, arm'd in virtue go,

"Assert thy worth, and crush th' insulting foe;

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May Heaven propitious on thy arms attend,

"From dangers guard thee, and from wounds defend; "May this firm shield each hostile dart repel,

"That lord protecting whom I love so well;

"Whose form, more faithful than the sculptor's art,

Impressive love has stamp'd upon this heart.

"For O! where'er thy fates or fortune lead,

"In life to flourish, or in death to bleed,

My kindred spirit shall attend thy call,

“With thee shall triumph, or with thee shall fall.

"Then let thy love this parting pledge receive,

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Perhaps the last Panthea e'er shall give;

"And when thou sink'st oppress'd with toil and pain,

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Say shall my image nerve thy arm again,

Edge thy keen sword, inspire thy latest breath,

"And point the way to conquest or to death?

"For know this throbbing heart would less bemoan "Thy fall untimely, than thy honour gone; "Since fate, tho' adverse, grasps the meed of fame, "And death is glory, when to live is shame.”

She ceas'd, and half suppress'd a rising sigh, While the big tear stood trembling in her eye. Thro' his bold heart the soft infection stole, And kindred feelings touch'd his manly soul.

"Adieu," he cried, and raised her drooping head,
She wishful follow'd where the warrior led,
Then silent, turning sought her Virgin train,
And oft look'd back, slow moving o'er the plain.

Ah! hapless pair, your loves, your lives are o'er, And Fate exulting cries, "Ye meet no more!" E'en as the dauntless hero mov'd to war, Death shook his lance triumphant o'er the car; Funereal spirits stamp'd the warrior's doom, And Pity wept o'er Virtue's early tomb: For ah! no more shall fond Panthea's care For her lost lord the fragrant bath prepare: From his tir'd brow unbind the beaming crest, Or clasp the robe of triumph o'er his breast. E'en now, while trembling at some cause unknown, Pensive she mourns her Abradates gone, While oft her bosom heaves with anxious pain, While oft her eye starts wistful to the plain, And each low groan that strikes her wakeful ear Thrills thro' her heart, and speaks of danger near; E'en now, o'erthrown beneath the Egyptian sword, Lies the pale image of her bleeding lord, While the grim ruffian, ere his sense has flown,

Stamps on his breast, and taunts his dying groan.